


Spark/Lock and Key

by jenovasilver



Category: Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After the Fall, Damn Mycroft, Drugs, Ficlet, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, I'm okay with this., M/M, Possessive Behavior, Potentially Dark!Fic, Sibling Love, Siblings, Wibble!John, all the feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-27
Updated: 2012-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 03:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenovasilver/pseuds/jenovasilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two ficlets at two after the Fall....John is in mourning and Mycroft is being my favourite flavor of Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spark/Lock and Key

**Sherlock (BBC)-Spark**

John didn’t mourn openly, he didn’t want anyone to see him broken…he didn’t want anyone’s pity or comforting 'chats'…he just needed time to _think_ , time to let everything settle into a collective pool of truths. Sherlock was dead, he saw him fall, he saw him die..he saw the blood, he was dead.

Sherlock was **dead**.  
 ** __**

**_Dead_.**

There was a lump in John's throat and swallowing that reality just made him utterly hate waking up in the mornings, he hated going out in society and the looks, he hated the whispers. John was a studious man, he accepted the gossip about his relationship with such a scandalous man with dignity and responded bluntly to end the petty conversations. But John hated that _too_ , in his heart he wasn’t callous, he couldn’t STAND casting barbs and being cruel…that _wasn’t_ his nature. And that wasn’t what Sherlock loved about him.

What Sherlock **loved** about him.  
 _ ****_

_**Loved.** _

The if the mornings were terrible then the nights were agony, sleeping was already hard as it is with the nightmares; it was the forth day and John quit trying to sleep..2 hours of napping and the remainder of the night was just staring at the wall..staring at the memories. John couldn’t live here at 221b, not here, not in this flat..not without _him_.

Everything felt raw, everything felt hot and cold…each vying to tear John's fragile soul apart, this was absolute _crushing_ despair. The tears were faint, trailing down his cheeks and he wiped them away… _no, no crying_ , he was tired. Three days with no sufficient rest meant that his body was wearing down, John should have been used to this, war wasn’t a place for sound slumber but this _wasn’t_ war. Not in the literal sense. He _had_ to grieve, he _had_ to accept and douse the spark. Sherlock is **dead**.

John stumbled to Sherlock’s room, he wasn’t thinking…he knew that this wasn’t his bed but it was so close, the smell felt so assuring, this place was safe…  
 __

_Sherlock is dead._  
  
 ** _God, Sherlock is dead._**  
  
Then it finally happened..oh how this _ached_ , oh how it crumbled…that weight making John’s heart shatter…he clutched his chest and sobbed in the pillow. _No John, stop this_..that a small spark was still kindled and he wanted it gone, _snuffed out_...John was tired, he needed to sleep and his eyes wouldn’t open. He almost prayed that they didn’t. Where was that strength? John had it in fountains when he was with Sherlock…where did it go..? His sobs came to an end and he fell alseep.

The window opened and footsteps lightly echoed on the floor, not enough to wake the soul on the bed…the air tonight was crisp and the footsteps made it the bed silently then came to a rest. There were some soft whispers and John mumbled to himself; the tears that were locked in his eyes before he finally slept soon fell and dampened the pillow beneath him.

A cool calming hand touched John’s face, long fingers ghosted his cheeks softly…tenderly, it made him heat up when he heard the voice scold him for his careless deconstruction. John laid on his back, the cold air welcoming respite from the heat slowly growing inside him..that heat was familiar, that voice familiar, a reminder of the past...the profound love and now the agonizing grief.

“John…keep me warm." The rich voice said, John's whole body seemed to come alight...it was willing him to move, to rouse, "You must.”

“Sh…sher..”

The voice soon became a small weight on John’s chest, tickling of hair over his nose, the scent of early snow and smoke...of blood. It was accompanied by the sounds of both hearts soothing another, united, needing this connection desperately and remained like this until the dawn.

John’s eyes finally fluttered open to greet the sun...but fingers kept them closed.

“Keep me warm John.” The voice whispered and placed his hand on John’s heart. There was a soft press of lips on John's, the kiss became heavier almost like the voice didn't want to pull away but had to. “…I’ll come back to you.” The kiss left John's lips longing and the fingers slipped off his eyes, still exhausted, John fell back to sleep.

It was an hour when John finally opened his eyes, the sun was up, the busy sounds of London filled the streets below…but his heart and soul which felt so heavy last night now seemed clear and light, he felt a small fluttering flame kept vigil inside. _He had to **protect** it_.

The window was open and John knew he never opened it, a memory of a kiss…hope, believe in hope...it kept him alive so far. John gave a small smile... _believe in him_.

_Sherlock is...._   
  
**END**   
  


**++**

 

**Sherlock (BBC)-Lock and Key**

Many who knew Mycroft Holmes knew that you only really see what he strictly WANTS you to see of him. Underneath the very cool gentlemanly exterior was a level of hellish winter that would make Satan himself reconsider his past choices. Very few could withstand it, Mycroft's sharp acerbic and overall disturbingly unforgiving manner of speaking made Heads of State crumble just to get away from it and try remain on his 'good side' to forget it.

And that cold served Mycroft well, he didn’t have to always use his reptilian brain to outguess and embarrass the halfwits he occasionally has to talk to (Save his precious Anthea). However there was only one person that withstood the cold, _**one person**_ who constantly could chip away at his seemingly impregnable shield of patience.

That was his little brother, Sherlock. Sherlock was preverbial blowtorch to Mycroft’s icy wall, a fact that always made their tenuous relationship all the more _tenuous_ especially when John Watson arrived. Mycroft actually LIKED John. He admired his innate ability to reflect and be immune to Sherlock’s flagrant displays of rudeness, he knew that Sherlock liked John just as well, perhaps more than a friendly ‘chap’ kind of way, no, Mycroft KNEW full well the depths of the duo’s relationship… _more_ than friends, _more_ then lovers…they were _**soulmates**_.

Which was FINE! Heaven knows Sherlock _needed_ someone to balance him. Of course, this all changed after the **Fall**.

When Sherlock faked his death, Mycroft of course knew….he waited and intercepted the ambulance as it made way to the secure location where Sherlock would’ve been tended to and eventually released to plan his ‘miraculous’ resurrection. But Mycroft was NOT going to allow that, see, when Sherlock decided on this terrible but brilliant plan, Mycroft was dealing with nonsense in the Middle East. It was horrible timing and made worse that in someway, Mycroft _himself_ drove Sherlock to such levels with Moriarty…he certainly was NOT on his top form when he dealt with that man.

Like many things that didn’t go in Sherlock’s favour (if they ever did) the youngest Holmes reacted with his sudden change gracefully…he thrashed about, slung horrendous curses and was just plain unpleasant to those around him (more than normal). However on that day, Mycroft was NOT in the mood, not in the slightest….

And he did something about it and that 'something' came at the tip of a needle and a hasty retreat to vastly secure location that not even the Royal Family had in their possession.

Mycroft walked into this place that only had one large room, one door, no windows…everything was observed through cameras, guards and the like were stationed in hidden spots with sniper rifles at the ready. They were paid ridiculously to sacrifice their comfort and free time with family for this one task of guarding this one spot that they THEMSELVES didn’t fully comprehend but accepted for the 6 figures that automatically appeared in their accounts.

Only Mycroft knew, only Mycroft had the key and only Mycroft knew where the lock _was_ to use _said_ key.

Everything was there, anything a person needed (saved outside contacts), not that it would be necessary for what Mycroft kept there.

**Sherlock.**

In the middle of the room sat a bed, in the middle of that bed slept Sherlock…but it wasn’t a natural sleep, sedated…that really was the best way for Sherlock to heal and recover. Mycroft learned that ahead of time that keeping Sherlock in lucid was met with flagrant disrespect and disobedience, he needed to eat but never did, he needed to bathe but rarely did. This way was ideal, there was a feeding tube and Mycroft could bathe Sherlock without reproach....at least until Sherlock TRULY understood his current position. Which he knew his younger brother did, however Sherlock’s very nature was to be disagreeable and Mycroft actually loved that but when he _wanted_ to, this time his buttons were pressed, this time Sherlock made a miscalculation that nearly killed him. **This time….**

The more Mycroft thought about it, the more it incensed him…this was _far too close_ and out of his control, he’s never NOT been out of control at least not to this degree. He almost lost Sherlock… HIS Sherlock.

Sherlock slept there, the I.V in his arm filling his body with the necessary nutrients to keep him functioning, sleeping peacefully, docile and his most beautiful and most fragile, his hair was growing wildly…that can _never_ be. Mycroft liked the curly ebony cloud of his brother’s hair, it was a defining contrast between them, himself-the more constrained and Sherlock-the more free. Mycroft grabbed a small set of clippers and a mirror then begun to snip away the curls down to something more presentable.

“John..” Sherlock mumbled in the haze of the drugs, his thoughts on John… _always_.

“No and you look horrid..what would Mummy think?” Mycroft finished the last rebellous curl and styled it as Sherlock tried to flutter open his eyelids but he couldn’t, “Hush…rest.”

“My, let…me…go....please.” It took all the strength in Sherlock's being to reach up and touch Mycroft’s hand, the _burn_ , the _touch_ , small pangs of a forbidden desire began to bubble to the surface.

“Behave and soon. That’s all you’ll get from me…” Sherlock’s hand slumped to the side defeated by the drugs, the chemical sleep taking him back to his chemical dreams. The tears of his failed strength locked in his ducts, with one slipping out and dared to be the only thing in this room free. But even that Mycroft took away, with a kiss..just as sweet and as sinful.

One day he’ll let Sherlock go and return to his John's side. But for now…much like everything in this room, in this hidden location.

 

He was under lock and key. And Mycroft had them _**both**_.

 

**END**


End file.
